


The Trials of Saint Denis

by Nopride4531



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Gender-neutral Reader, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 05:50:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nopride4531/pseuds/Nopride4531
Summary: The Reader is taken hostage by Angelo Bronte. Arthur fights to get them back.Originally posted on Tumblr under the username Heart-of-gold-outlaw.





	1. When It All Goes Wrong

Saint Denis is, by all rights, the epitome of the end to everything the Van Der Linde gang has ever known. You’re well aware of this, probably more so than anyone else. Still, you follow Dutch when he decides to make the move. Well, you follow  _Arthur_ , who’s following–blindly, might you add–Dutch. Just like always. You know better than to think you can change their minds, so you don’t even try. Honestly, you’re not sure what’s got you so worked up. Maybe (and deep down, you’re certain you’ve hit the target dead-center), it’s the pain of losing Sean. That awful experience is still fresh in everyone’s minds, not just yours, but hell, Sean was… he just  _was._  And now he’s gone.

But, despite everything, Saint Denis might have more to offer than you want to admit. And besides: you’ve already lost so much. Life couldn’t possibly hurt you anymore.

You of all people should’ve known that it always finds a way. 

Things start going wrong when Dutch involves himself in Mr. Bronte’s business. The Italian is no stranger to playing people, and he plays Dutch as easily as his favorite instrument. You saw this coming. Same as John. Same as Arthur. And, same as the two of them, you know Dutch’ll retaliate. Because Dutch van der Linde doesn’t  _like_  being played, isn’t used to it. Normally,  _he’s_  the one doing the playing, the manipulating, the planning. He’s like a puppet master, voicing his desires through others’ mouths, controlling their movements until, one day, he cuts the strings. 

Heaven forbid somebody try to cut  _his._

Dutch dispatches you to Mr. Bronte as a liaison later that week. You bristle–internally, that is–at being forced to do the dirty work, but inevitably comply. Arthur won’t be happy when he finds out Dutch basically sent you into the lion’s den, but with him and Hosea checking on a few leads back in Valentine, there’s not too much he can do about it. 

As usual, you try to stick to the plan: talk business only, in at sunrise, out by sunset. 

And, as usual, the plan goes horribly, inexorably wrong.

Turns out, Bronte’s not a lion, but a snake. A venomous one. You don’t lower your guard when you walk into that house–never do around anyone but Arthur–and Bronte  _still_  gains the upper hand. Not that he didn’t always have it. Once again, he proves Dutch the fool, and once again, you’re caught in the middle of it. 

When you can next focus between powerful kicks and sloppy, but strong punches, you’re someplace dark, wet, and  _cold._  Moving–breathing–hurts pretty bad, but not as much as your pride. You should’ve known this would happen. Hell, you  _did_  know, and you went along with Dutch’s plan anyway. Despite the pain, you shrug to yourself. It’s the price you pay for blind loyalty.

Even with your situation as awful as it is, even as your swollen eyes struggle to focus in the darkness, you hope–pray, maybe–that Arthur won’t throw himself in harm’s way to rescue you. But you know it’s futile, just like you know that if the situation was reversed, if it was  _Arthur_ lying in some sleazy bastard’s basement, beaten to within an inch of his life, you would extinguish the flames of Hell to get him back. 

You can only hope he finds you in time.

* * *

 

Arthur and Hosea ride back into camp after spending nearly three days in Valentine. For a reason he can’t quite place, Arthur’s had a knot in his stomach since yesterday morning. He’s not the type of man to believe in superstition, nor is he the type to needlessly worry, but a knot’s a knot no matter how anybody paints it. Still, he does his best to ignore it, brush it off as nothing. If Hosea notices anything different, he (wisely) keeps it to himself. Good thing, too: Arthur’s not in the mood for being coddled. Never has been.

The knot triples in size when he spies Dutch waiting by the edge of camp, wearing an expression Arthur’s been seeing too much as of late. He dismounts slowly, carefully, barely aware of Hosea doing the same. 

“What’s goin’ on, Dutch?” Arthur asks as he risks a glance around camp. Nobody looks at him, and damn, if that doesn’t make his heart plummet. “Where’s–” He pauses for a second, gathering his strength, his self-control. “Where’s Y/N?”

Dutch watches him for a moment–a long one–before he sighs. “Arthur–”

“Where. are. they?” Arthur’s voice is low, low enough to be dangerous, and he takes a single step forward.

To give him credit, Dutch doesn’t move or even blink, just stares at Arthur with that same expression and admits: “Bronte has them.”

Arthur sets his back to everyone and runs a hand through his hair, tugging at the strands so hard, his scalp screams. 

“Arthur, I swear to you,” Dutch is saying, “I have a plan to get them back and make that bastard p–”

“You always got a plan, Dutch,” Arthur interrupts, turning around to face him again. “You always got goddamn plans an’ they  _don’ work.”_

For once, Dutch is silent, and for once, Arthur’s the cause of it. He can’t bring himself to care as he hurries back to his horse, hefting himself into the saddle almost automatically. He hears Dutch call after him, sees Hosea silence him with one hard look, and then Arthur’s galloping toward Saint Denis. He has no idea what he’s going to do, no real plan other than “go, go,  _go_ ,” but his fury pushes him ever forward. 

Dimly, he grows aware of pounding hooves behind him, and glances over his shoulder to see the entirety of the Van Der Linde gang following his lead, looking like a small army. Hosea, Dutch, and John are at the forefront. Arthur gives them a quick nod, the only recognition they’ll get. Somehow, he knows they understand. 


	2. A Venomous Bite

They reach Saint Denis in record time, reach Mr. Bronte’s house even faster. Arthur’s off his horse and halfway to the front gate before a solid hand on his shoulder drags him back. He turns with a glare sharper than knives, expecting to see Dutch–and ready to give him hell. But it’s Hosea standing there. It’s Hosea keeping him from charging head-first into that house, a house built like a fortress. Arthur opens his mouth to say something–anything, really–in protest, but one level look from Hosea has him clenching it shut.

“We need to be smart about this, Arthur,” Hosea says. “Knocking down Bronte’s front door won’t buy us or Y/N any favors.”

Arthur knows he’s right. Goddammit, Hosea’s  _always_  right, always water when Arthur wants fire. Once upon a time, that would’ve been more than enough. But that was before they lost Sean, before Bronte took Jack, before–

–before he took  _you._   

Still, Arthur’s smart enough to know when to fold. He looks into Hosea’s eyes and gives the smallest tip of his chin, an action so minute that anyone else would’ve missed it. Just for a moment, though, Arthur sees a hint of  _something_  in Hosea’s gaze, something raw, calculating, dangerous. But it’s gone before he can figure out what it is.

An unspoken agreement passes between the entirety of the gang, and soon enough, Arthur, Dutch, and Hosea are marching to Bronte’s front door. Arthur clenches his fists to keep his hands from shaking, nails digging into his palms. The men guarding the entrance part easily, and it’s all too clear Mr. Bronte has been expecting Dutch; probably been expecting the others, too. Arthur tries not to think about what that means for them… or for you.

The interior of the house is as extravagant as he remembers, maybe even more so now that he’s paying attention to every little detail. Bronte receives them in the living room, and he tries to be all smiles, but Arthur notices that those smiles are all teeth. This man, he decides, can bite. And he can bite  _hard._  Treading lightly would be best, but at this point, Arthur’s sick of thin ice and he’s more than sick of playing games. So when Bronte tries to dance around the situation, a situation he’s oh-so-carefully orchestrated, it takes all Arthur has not to lose control. 

“What can I do for you, my friends?” Bronte asks, clapping his hands together, smiling that big, arrogant smile again. “Why have you come to my city in such a–”

“Enough.” Surprisingly, it’s Hosea, not Dutch, who speaks first. What Arthur glimpsed in his eyes before is back… and it’s twice as strong. It’s enough that he recognizes it for what it truly is: barely-leashed fury _._  “Where. is. Y/N?”

The question is spoken with all the wrath of a thousand fathers. And that makes sense to Arthur, maybe the only thing that does anymore. Hosea always acts particularly fond of you, like how he acts particularly fond of Arthur and John. Now, the bear’s cub has been stolen–and the culprit is  _smiling at him._  

Arthur’s suddenly glad he’s not on Hosea’s bad side, and makes a mental note to never go there.

Bronte stares at them all for a moment. Arthur can practically see the internal battle he’s fighting, and hopes that the winning side is the side of reason. Somewhere in the room, a grandfather clock ticks.

Then, Bronte smiles again, that hideous,  _I-hold-all-the-cards_  smile, and snaps his fingers at a man to his left. The man bows, disappears down a hallway, and returns less than five minutes later, dragging your unconscious form behind him.

Something in Arthur threatens to snap. He takes a single step forward, murder in his eyes, but Dutch and Hosea each give him  _that_  look, and he stops. 

“Consider this a warning,” Bronte says as one of his men all but throws you into Arthur’s arms. “Next time, your friend won’t be so lucky.”


	3. Safe

You drift into consciousness slowly, like your trying to swim your way through thick, murky bayou water. At first, you’re not aware of much–distant humming and a warm heaviness, but that’s all. You’re content to stay in this state for a while, but you can’t help the nagging feeling that there’s something you should know, something you should  _remember._  Dimly, brief sensations shoot through your body: cold, dark, pain, more cold… they bother you. And, with all the effort you can muster, you realize they’re not sensations, but memories. Memories that you don’t want to have. 

Everything suddenly feels wrong. The humming becomes too loud, too clear, and the warmth morphs into constricting, sweltering heat. You can’t move. Even a twitch feels like the most complicated thing you’ve ever done. 

Just like that, it all comes rushing back to you. Saint Denis, Bronte, that frigid cellar without any light–everything. You try to shift, but whatever’s keeping you still is  _strong,_  and it’s not letting up any time soon. Your eyes are too dry and crusty to open easily, but you try anyways, desperate to take in your surroundings, to become aware, to find a way out. The humming rises in volume again, and you realize it’s not humming, but crackling. The sound of a fire. 

That doesn’t make sense. The last thing you remember, you were in Bronte’s basement, cold and unable to see anything but darkness. You wonder if this is some kind of trick, if that snake-like man is trying to throw you off your guard. It wouldn’t be the first time.

You try to move again, this time with more success. Something shifts, and blessed, cool air rushes to meet your sweating neck and chest. You breathe out a sigh of relief. The heat was becoming overwhelming; you’re glad for a change.

“Easy, darlin’,” a voice drawls somewhere close to your ear. “Easy. You’re alright now.”

It takes you a moment, but eventually, you recognize it: Arthur. How you could’ve mistaken that distinctive voice for anybody else, you don’t know. Nevertheless, you relax, but only marginally. If Arthur’s there with you, then that means… Bronte…

“Arthur,” you croak. That’s all you can manage, really: his name. Your throat feels like you’ve swallowed glass, and your mouth tastes like ash. It’s a wonder you’re able to speak at all.

“Just try an’ rest, Y/N,” he says. You feel light pressure on your forehead, the soft sensation of his fingers through your hair. “You’ll be alrigh’.” 

Somehow, you force your eyes open. The world’s distorted at first, blurry and shadow-like, but as you blink, it slides into focus. You realize you’re not in Bronte’s cellar anymore, but back at camp in Shady Belle, lying down in front of a roaring fire. Arthur sits by your side. There are hard lines on his face, lines you don’t remember being there before everything happened. A pang of guilt squeezes your chest at being the cause of them.

“How long?” You ask around your dry throat. It’s not a question for the ages, but it’s at the front of your mind more than anything else.

Arthur frowns and reaches behind him. Soon, you feel the press of a canteen against your lips and crisp water flows into your mouth. You drink gratefully, borderline greedily. 

“’Bout two days,” he says as he sets the canteen aside, almost before you’ve had enough. “You’ve been in an’ out since Tuesday.”

You watch the way the firelight dances in his tired eyes, the way it shimmers and catches the blue in them. He looks exhausted and relieved all at the same time. You hate to think about all the pain you’ve caused him. 

“You came and got me.” 

The words leave your lips before you know it. Arthur huffs out a hint of a laugh at them, fingers continuing to run through your hair. 

“Of course.” He looks at you like you’re the only thing keeping his feet on the ground. “’S what I do best.”

You’re too tired to laugh, so you settle for a small smile. “I knew you would,” you murmur, suddenly more fatigued than you’ve ever been. “You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan.”

He returns your smile, then leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Just rest, darlin’.” His lips feel like feathers against your skin. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”


End file.
